Lions of the Grail

by Tim Hodkinson

  ‘I go!’ he roared, as he grabbed the reins of his horse. ‘I leave this den of sin as Lot left Sodom! The earl will have to account for all this before his maker!’ With that, the horse clattered out of the courtyard at a brisk gallop, forcing Savage and the gate guard to leap aside.

  While the guard was distracted, Savage strode quickly past him.

  ‘Hoi!’ the guard protested, but Savage just marched purposefully on across the castle courtyard. The guard wrestled with the dilemma of whether or not to stay at his post or chase the newcomer but quickly decided that he would be better remaining at the gate.

  The earl’s bodyguards were more than capable of protecting him from any threat.

  Savage did not need a guide to tell him where to find the earl. It was the last day of April – the eve of the May Day holiday – so the Earl of Ulster would be in the great hall of the castle, hearing legal cases from his tenants and vassals and listening to requests for aid from the common folk. The great hall and the keep were at the heart of the castle, inside the old inner wall that had been built over a century before by Syr John de Courcy, the first Norman knight to conquer Ulster.

  Savage entered the gate in the old wall and headed for the hall.

  On either side of the door to the hall stood a heavily armed galloglaich, mercenary warriors feared for their prowess and ferocity in battle. Obviously the local militia were only relied on so far. The galloglaiches wore heavy chain mail armour, and each bore a poleaxe that looked big enough to split a man in two. Their long blond hair and the two pairs of light blue eyes that coolly regarded the approaching Richard Savage from under their helmet visors bore testament to the mercenaries’ Norse forefathers, the Fionn Gall. As Savage neared the door the poleaxes clattered together in a cross that barred his progress.

  A third man stepped forward. He was in his mid-thirties and was richly clad in expensive, colourful robes. He had a pleasant, smiling face and long fair hair. From his belt hung a heavy bunch of huge iron keys.

  ‘Greetings, sir,’ the man said in welcome French. ‘I am Henry de Thrapston, keeper of this castle and the earl’s treasurer. I am afraid you cannot go any further until we know who you are and what your business is.’

  ‘I am Richard le Savage,’ Savage replied to the courteous greeting in like terms. ‘I am here as emissary for the King of England with a message for the Earl of Ulster.’

  The castellan raised his eyebrows. ‘A message from the king, eh? We were beginning to think he’d forgotten about us out here. But tell me,’ he continued, scratching his blond beard, ‘you say your name is Savage. That’s a local name. Have you any relatives around here?’

  ‘My father held a manor on the southern lough shore.’

  ‘I thought I detected a hint of a local accent.’ De Thrapston grinned. ‘I knew your father – a long time ago. You must be John.’

  ‘Richard,’ Savage corrected.

  ‘Richard? I thought you’d gone into the Church,’ de Thrapston said, looking genuinely puzzled.

  Savage quickly looked away to avoid de Thrapston’s eyes. He did not want to pursue that topic any further. It could lead to dangerous questions about the Templars. He changed the subject: ‘Syr Henry, this message is of the utmost importance: life or death. I must speak to the earl as soon as possible.’

  De Thrapston nodded. ‘I mustn’t delay an emissary of the king with idle chatter. No offence, but you know the rules: I must ask you to surrender all weapons before entering the great hall of the castle.’

  ‘No offence taken,’ Savage said with a confident tone he did not feel as he handed his sword and dagger to de Thrapston. ‘Murder so often comes as the smiler with the knife beneath his cloak.’

  De Thrapston handed Savage’s weapons to one of the soldiers who took them off to the castle armoury. The keeper of the castle then led the way into the great hall. It was a long, narrow building with woven rush matting covering its floor and exquisite, expensive tapestries hung on the walls. The hall’s two large windows provided ample illumination so no torches were required.

  At the far end of the hall was a raised dais, on which sat an ornately carved wooden chair. On the chair sat Richard Óg de Burgh, the Red Earl of Ulster.

  Immensely rich and exceedingly powerful, Richard de Burgh ruled everything east of the Bann river from Coleraine in the north to Dundrum in the south-east, as well as vast estates in Connaught in the west of Ireland. Now in his fifties, the chestnut hair that hung down his back in two long braided plaits was streaked with grey, as was his beard. He wore leggings and jerkin made from the finest of English wool, but he was also clad in the Irish style of a saffron kilt that hung down to his knees and was wrapped over his left shoulder where it was fastened with a large gold Celtic brooch. The kilt was woven to a local pattern, but the wool it was made from was of the utmost quality from the sheep of the Cistercian monasteries in the north of England. The original colour of de Burgh’s hair was only one of the reasons why the poets and bards of Ulster had dubbed him the “Red” Earl. Red was the colour associated in the Gaelic legends with violence and death. He had dark, starkly arched eyebrows and, when angry, had a stare that could wither grass at one hundred yards. At the present moment, however, he was highly amused at something.

  Standing behind the earl was a tall, thin man who was not smiling. With close-cropped black hair and beard, this man was wrapped in a long, black cloak that had a white equal-armed cross on the right shoulder.

  Savage stiffened in surprise. He had not expected to run into Hugo de Montmorency quite so early on his return to Ireland. To his relief, Montmorency showed no signs of recognising him. Seven years in a prison cell must have changed him.

  Two more armed galloglaiches stood on guard before the dais.

  ‘Syr Richard le Savage,’ Henry de Thrapston announced. ‘Emissary from King Edward of England.’

  ‘Forgive my merriment, Syr Richard,’ the earl said in ringing tones, ‘but I’ve just had a visit from a local parson.’

  ‘I think I was almost run over by the man on my way in, sire,’ Savage said.

  ‘He’s a local character, one of those itinerant preacher types who seem to be about these days. A very hot-headed shepherd,’ the earl replied. ‘Perhaps that shows the strength of his convictions but a lot of folk think he’s just a wandering madman. He came here to request – nay demand – that I ban the “heathen and pagan practices”—’ the earl shouted these words in what must have been an imitation of the departed priest ‘—which the people will carry out tomorrow to celebrate the May Day, or Beltane as they call it here. Fool. What does he want: a riot? The people would go mad! Then he started ranting about the tournament we are holding, complaining that the Pope has outlawed jousting and melees.’

  ‘People need the chance to enjoy themselves sometimes. Priests would have us on our knees praying all the time,’ Savage said.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the earl. ‘“Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?” eh, Montmorency?’ This last question was directed at the Knight Hospitaller standing behind him, who merely gave a dry smile.

  ‘The man is a heretic,’ Montmorency said. No further explanation as to what exactly the Hospitaller’s opinion of what should be done with him was required.

  ‘Now…’ The earl became serious. ‘What business does the king have with us? Forgive me if I seem discourteous, Syr Richard, but you don’t look much like an envoy of a king.’

  As part of their job involved crossing enemy battle lines, heralds tended to advertise their identity. So richly and sumptuously dressed were they that they could usually be seen coming from a mile off, which was a distinct advantage when there were archers around who could shoot an arrow through your eye from a distance not much short of one.

  ‘You are referring to my humble dress, sire,’ Savage said. ‘This was so as not to attract attention to my mission. I don’t usually work as an emissary. I was chosen for this mission because I am from Ulster myself and the king knew I w
as returning here to visit my homestead.’

  The Red Earl narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re not a cloak-and-dagger man, are you?’ he said, his voice laden with distaste.

  ‘No.’ Savage shook his head. ‘Nothing so exciting. But my message has to remain secret until you decide what action to take on it.’ With that Savage reached into his pouch. Instantly, the two bodyguards standing before the dais drew their daggers, then relaxed when all that Savage retrieved was the parchment scroll with the large red wax seal on it. He handed this to de Thrapston who, on seeing the imprint of the Lions of England on the seal, carried it reverently down the hall to the Red Earl.

  Earl de Burgh broke it open, unrolled the scroll and, to Savage’s faint surprise, began to read. Reading was a skill looked down on with disdain by the ruling classes and looked up to in awe by the lower classes. Virtually no members of either rank could do it. The Red Earl was obviously an exception, but from what Savage knew of him, de Burgh was an exceptional man.

  ‘I’m honoured that the king has deigned to write to me,’ the earl announced, but his voice betrayed the fact that magnates as powerful as Richard de Burgh by and large were not exactly knocked head-over-heels in awe by letters from royalty. De Burgh was virtually a king himself; he was certainly as rich as one. ‘He instructs me to pay heed to the message delivered by his special emissary, Syr Richard Savage, and to treat it with the urgency and importance it deserves—’

  Savage was startled. ‘Syr, the message is a secret one, for your eyes only,’ he protested.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the earl replied. ‘Everyone here is completely trustworthy.’

  Savage glanced at the black-clad Knight Hospitaller and doubted this.

  Earl de Burgh carried on reading: ‘“By the time you read this message, the Scottish Parliament will have gathered at Ayr, a stone’s throw across the sea from your earldom. Our spies tell us that under cover of the gathering of the Parliament, Edward Bruce is gathering an invasion fleet that will set sail for Ireland as soon as the Parliament finishes. Your earldom is closest to Scotland and first in line for attack. This attack is imminent. Your king is warning you so that you can look to your defences and raise the feudal levy. Your earldom of Ulster is all that stands in the way of disaster. We expect you to do your duty to God and to your king. Edward Rex.”’

  There were several moments of silence in the hall as the echoes of the king’s words died away. The earl stood up slowly and deliberately and looked Savage in the eye.

  ‘Syr Richard,’ he said in a low, even tone. ‘I would not be so churlish as to blame the messenger for the portent of the message which he bears, so I absolve you of any blame. However, is the king not aware that my own daughter is the wife of Robert Bruce? Is the king asking me to believe that my own kinsfolk are plotting a war against me? This is a terrible insult!’

  ‘Sire,’ Savage protested. ‘The information is from highly reliable sources. The invasion plans are set. The army is ready. Edward Bruce has struck a bargain with Thomas Dun, who has gathered together half the ships in Scotland to carry the invasion force across the Moyle Sea to Ireland. For all we know they have already set sail.’

  ‘Thomas Dun?’ Montmorency sneered. ‘The man is a pirate. If the tale is true then we will have nothing to worry about. Dun will just steal Bruce’s money and he’ll see neither hide nor hair of any ships.’

  ‘Sire.’ Savage ignored the Hospitaller and addressed the earl. ‘You led Irish troops on two of the king’s royal father’s campaigns in Scotland. You received the surrender of the Scots yourself. Your earldom sends supplies to the king for his wars in France. Bruce is determined to stop Irish aid to England in her Scottish wars. I urge you to take heed of the danger—’

  ‘The marriage of my daughter and of my sister were arranged to reconcile our houses. The king need not concern himself. We will not be attacked,’ the earl stated. ‘And even if we are, we are ready. The Bonnaught and my galloglaich troops are one hell of a standing army who can fight off ten times their number of Scots while the feudal levy of knights is gathered. I’ve also commissioned Montmorency, here to organise new defence plans for the earldom, which he is implementing as we speak. Syr Hugo is Knight Marshal of the Order of St John here in Ireland. He is well learned in the latest arts of warfare from their experience defending the Holy Land.’

  ‘It isn’t very long since the Saracens retook the Holy Land that the Hospitallers were supposed to be defending,’ Savage said.

  Montmorency’s eyes narrowed. ‘The loss of the holy places came through the sins of the Crusaders, the Templars in particular,’ he hissed. ‘No number of tactics can prevail when God himself has turned against you.’

  ‘Knight Marshal Montmorency is one of the finest strategists I have met,’ the earl said and then smiled. ‘He is also a damned fine chess player: the only man to beat me in the last five years.’ He gestured towards a long table that ran along one of the walls of the great hall. Savage glanced over to see that a chess set was sitting on it. From the arrangement of the pieces it was evident that a game was underway.

  ‘Montmorency and I have an ongoing rivalry on the chessboard,’ the Red Earl explained. ‘As it happens, that very chessboard was a gift from my son-in-law, Robert Bruce, two Christmases ago. Have no fear, Syr Richard,’ the Red Earl reassured him. ‘We appreciate your concern for our wellbeing – and I’m sure that that is what concerns the king and not the possible loss of a valuable source of supplies, soldiers and tax revenue – but be certain that if the worst comes, we shall be ready. We always are.’

  It was clear that this was to be the last word on the matter.

  Suddenly the earl asked, ‘How’s your jousting?’

  ‘Pardon?’ Savage was somewhat taken aback.

  ‘Your jousting,’ the earl repeated. ‘Tomorrow is the May Day holiday and we’re holding a tournament. It will take place after church.’

  ‘I was hoping to visit my old family manor…’ Savage protested.

  ‘Syr Richard, you are now my guest,’ the earl said. ‘It would be churlish of me to let you rush off without entertaining you. You must stay here tonight. Tomorrow after church you can compete with the best of us in the tourney. Then tomorrow night I am having a feast here in the castle. You must come to that too. Even king’s emissaries have to take a holiday some time.’

  ‘But I have no armour with me,’ Savage tried one last excuse.

  ‘Don’t worry about that.’ De Thrapston – the keeper of the castle – spoke up, clapping Savage on the shoulder. ‘We’ll soon sort you out with something.’

  ‘Yes, you do that, Henry,’ the earl assented with a smile, the thunder clouds of his anger now totally evaporated. ‘Now show Syr Richard to his lodgings. He can have the room in the north tower.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Savage. ‘Your hospitality is most generous.’

  Generous, and undeniable. Savage was under no illusion that he had any choice in this matter. A vague feeling of foreboding crept into his chest as he wondered just how long he was going to be a “guest” of the Earl of Ulster.

  ‘I seem to remember that your father was a fearsome man in the tournament,’ de Thrapston boomed. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing if you’re a chip off the old block.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Montmorency gave a sly grin. ‘I’ll look forward to meeting you out there myself.’

  De Thrapston led Savage out into the courtyard. As the young knight followed the keeper of the castle, dark, heavy rainclouds were gathering over Carrickfergus. He looked up at the stark, solid walls of the castle keep and could not help feeling a pang of unease as he noted just what a good prison it would make.

  12

  After Richard Savage left, silence descended on the hall of Carrickfergus Castle. A bright shaft of late afternoon sunshine poured in through one of the tall windows and the earl watched little motes of dust spinning around in the column of light.

  Eventually he said: ‘I don’t think there will be any more vassals
with requests today. Shall we resume our game?’

  The earl and the Knight Hospitaller left the dais and seated themselves at the chessboard.

  ‘So, another dancer joins the carol,’ the earl said, switching from French to English. ‘What do you make of this king’s envoy, Montmorency?’

  The Hospitaller did not reply, but instead glanced nervously at the earl’s bodyguards who hovered a little way off.

  ‘Don’t worry about my galloglaich guards. They can’t speak English,’ the earl said. Montmorency visibly relaxed.

  ‘I think this is a dangerous turn of events. It couldn’t have come at a worse time,’ the Hospitaller mused, stroking his beard and studying the chess set on the board before him. The pieces were carved from walrus ivory and represented Viking warriors. King Robert Bruce had got the set from the western islands of his realm where the ancient influence of the Norse was still strong.

  ‘Do you think the king suspects anything?’ the earl wondered aloud.

  ‘Who can tell?’ Montmorency moved the mounted warrior representing his knight to a bare three squares from the earl’s king. ‘I think we should not take any chances.’

  The earl grunted at the audacity of the Hospitaller’s move. ‘I don’t intend to. What way is the wind blowing, Montmorency?’

  Montmorency looked up at the earl with hooded eyes. ‘If Bruce’s fleet is ready to sail, then in a matter of days you will see yourself.’

  The earl regarded the Hospitaller from under lowered brows. ‘It is not in my nature to wait and see. I expect you, Montmorency, to tell me these things. You are loyal to your order, to your religion, and not mortal kings. That is why I trust you in this venture. Now tell me where things currently stand.’